“Your family.”
She did indeed look sorry. Sympathetic. But he really didn’t have time.
“Did you know them?”
“No.”
“Then there’s no need to be sorry. I’m over it.”
Joan looked over his shoulder then, and he realized he’d left his apartment door wide open. He knew what she was seeing. The bare room. The whiskey bottle on the table. The half-empty glass.
“Don’t let your memories kill you,” she said softly.
“They won’t kill me.” How could they? Like he’d told Weeks, he was already dead.
He picked up the duffel, shut his door, and left the building without looking back. Without speaking another word.
THIRTY-ONE
Seven-ten. He was in the GTO, headed downtown on the interstate. Traffic was light. He made good time.
Seven twenty-nine. He pulled into the parking garage outside the Centurion. Walked two blocks north till he found Livia Saint’s Jaguar, then melted into the shadows to wait.
Seven forty-four. Livia Saint came walking down the street, dressed in her workout clothes, gym bag over her shoulder. She unlocked the Jag and dropped the bag inside it, then headed off toward the Centurion.
He didn’t know which film she’d be seeing, but it didn’t matter. They all started around eight, ended around ten. More than enough time for his purposes.
He waited two minutes.
Seven forty-six. He ventured out of the shadows and pulled the fireplug out of his duffel. He set it down next to the Jag, nodded in satisfaction. Indistinguishable from the real thing.
Next was the shim. Thirty seconds later, he was inside the Jag, ransacking Livia Saint’s bag, taking special note of her perfume—Angel, Thierry Mugler—and the velvet case, Harry Winston inscribed on the outside, some obscenely large diamond earrings within. He put both back as he’d found them, then turned his attention to the ignition. Thirty seconds to hot-wire it, a minute to replace the wires so no damage was visible from outside the car.
Seven fifty-three.
He stopped at Cranston and Kennedy, took out the voice distorter, and attached it to the car phone. He dialed Quentin Glass’s number.
“Glass.”
“Quentin Glass?”
“Who is this?”
“I have certain photographic studies of you and your barber friend. Meet me at the bar in the Wyndham Harbor Island Hotel. Bring five thousand dollars, and I’ll give you the photographs. You wouldn’t want Howard Saint to see them, Mr. Glass.”
Before the man could respond, he hung up.
Glass’s reactions were the only potential stumbling block in his plan. Perhaps he’d been wrong—perhaps Glass didn’t care if Saint found out about his sexual orientation. Though from what he’d observed the last two weeks, Glass was paranoid about anyone finding out.
Castle put the chance of failure at 2 percent, give or take. Which would mean going to plan B. He’d know very soon.
Eight-fifty. He pulled into the parking lot of the Wyndham Hotel, parked the Jag in a clearly marked handicap space, and bled into the shadows.
Nine-thirteen. A Tampa Parking Enforcement vehicle pulled up next to the Jag. A minute later, a uniformed enforcement official climbed out, and plastered a ticket on the Jag’s windshield.
At that exact instant, Quentin Glass pulled up next to the hotel’s valet stand. Looking anything but happy, he tossed his keys to the valet and headed toward the bar.
Castle smiled. In his head, he mentally discarded the notes he’d been gathering for plan B.
Nine-seventeen. He slid back behind the wheel of the Jag, hot-wired the car again, and returned it to the spot the fireplug had held for him by the Centurion.
Nine-thirty. He disconnected the voice distorter, collected the prop fireplug, and melted back into the shadows.
Nine forty-five. Back in the GTO, he made a call on his cell.
“Hello?”
“You’re on.”
Castle hung up. His part for the night was done.
Time for Duka to take center stage.
Okay. Absolutely no reason to be nervous. Nothing to be afraid of. It was bound to come up in conversation, Castle said. If not tonight, then over the next couple days. He just had to stay cool, calm, collected.
“Micky!”
Duka started, and almost dropped the pitcher of margaritas in his hand.
“Pay attention, will you?” John Saint, stretched out on an inflatable raft in the middle of the pool, waved his glass in the air. “I’m empty here.”
Duka nodded. “Sorry, John. I was, ah—” His eyes went to the two blondes floating in the pool alongside John, and he smiled, or tried to anyway. “—distracted. If you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. You dog, Micky.” Saint shook his head and smiled. “Ain’t he a dog, girls?”
The girls nodded and giggled.
Micky topped off John’s glass, emptying the pitcher. The third pitcher of the night. The guy had to have a hollow leg—the girls hadn’t even finished their first drinks.
“I’ll mix up a fresh batch,” Micky said, and headed for the bar.
As he worked, he heard footsteps sound on the deck above him. A second later, those footsteps came down the stairs. Howard Saint. He stopped in front of the pool and put his hands on his hips.
“Quentin’s late. Where is he?”
“No idea, Pop,” John said. “You want a drink? Micky’s makin’ margaritas.”
“No, I don’t want a drink. I want Quentin.”
Duka took a deep breath. Here goes nothing, he thought, and coughed.
“Excuse me. Mr. Saint?”
Saint spun around and glared at him. “What?”
“I know where Mr. Glass is, sir. I saw him pulling into the Wyndham Hotel, couple hours ago.”
“Good. The Wyndham Hotel. Fine. What the fuck is he doing at the Wyndham Hotel? He’s supposed to be here.”
Duka blanched. “I, uh—”
“And where’s your mother gone to?” Saint asked, turning around to his son again. “John?”
“It’s Thursday, Pop,” the younger Saint replied.
“Right.” Howard Saint nodded. “Thursday. The movies.”
Right, Micky Duka almost said. The movies. He knew that, too.
Just then, a door slammed upstairs. Duka heard laughter. A woman and a man. Howard Saint heard it, too. Without a word, he went back up the stairs and inside.
Micky exhaled loudly. Thank God that was over with. That was almost as bad as hanging upside down in Castle’s apartment.
“Mick! The drinks?”
John Saint was waving his glass again.
“Right, John. Sorry.”
“And a couple fresh glasses for the girls here, right girls?”
The girls giggled. Duka smiled.
“Right. Fresh glasses, fresh pitcher, coming right at you.”
